


Murder Your Darlings Project (My contribution Only Here)

by eternalsojourn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dark, M/M, ambiguous - Freeform, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/pseuds/eternalsojourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is stabbed, Eames stands with him in the shower. Intention and reality are blurred in the steam, and all that's clear is a moment between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder Your Darlings Project (My contribution Only Here)

**Author's Note:**

> This project is the brainchild of [neomeruru](neomeruru.livejournal.com). She is an artist who created an image of Arthur and Eames in the shower, then asked interested fic writers to create a story around it preserving the ambiguity of the situation. Three writers submitted, including me, with three very different results. I'm archiving my portion here, but this really is worth your time to view the whole project (along with the amazing artwork) [over at ae-match](http://ae-match.livejournal.com/54523.html), where it was submitted as a contribution for Team Angst.

The quiet hiss of steam and water, the steady patter and drip on tile almost obscure the murmured soothing “shhh” that emerges from Eames’s lips. For long minutes steam has been thickening, blurring the edges of things, contracting the already close walls. It saturates surfaces and beyond, it sinks into the skin, hot. Sultry.

A single rivulet trickles its way down the dark tile towards Eames’s hand, pools in the vee between his first and second fingers. He flexes slightly, and it falls in a rush towards the floor.

He wraps his other arm protectively around Arthur’s frame, hand clasped firmly around Arthur’s wrist. Arthur wheezes, long, harsh -- a gasp wrung from some deep place, accessing his diminishing reserves.

“Shhh, darling. Arthur,” Eames breathes, barely voiced so as not to ring too loudly in Arthur’s ear. Arthur’s mouth drops open a little further, his eyes glazed.

Thrusting out of Arthur’s pale, otherwise pristine skin is a harsh glinting blade jutting from his clavicle at an almost proud angle. The black ridged handle is almost completely covered by three entwined hands: both of Arthur’s trembling as he struggles to steady himself, his normally crushing grip sapped of its strength, and Eames’s -- strong, steady.

Arthur leans back seeking support, or comfort. His slippery hot skin is flush with Eames’s, water gathering in the places where they meet, sliding past where flesh parts from flesh. Arthur is saved from falling by Eames’s solid weight: a bedrock strength that is unshakeable, irresistable.

Eames shifts his hand, moves the knife a fraction and another crimson trickle oozes out. Arthur gasps, a shrill hiss and Eames presses his cheek against Arthur’s hair. A flash of an expression flickers across his face: pleasure, pity. His brows knit together in concentration, glittering and fierce.

Their bodies mold to each other, Arthur’s contours nestled perfectly in the cradle of Eames’s frame. Normally lithe and strong, Arthur is a pained curve around the sharp blade plunged into his chest. He hunches protectively around his wound, around the blade, around the tangle of hands.

Eames’s lip curls gently, his eyes burning bright even as Arthur’s dim, drift shut. Arthur’s fingers squeeze feebly as Eames strokes Arthur’s knuckles, his lips twitching up in the smallest of quirks.

“Almost there,” Eames whispers as he lifts his hand from the wall to stroke a thumb along the line of Arthur’s cheekbone. Arthur works his jaw as if to speak, but no words emerge. “Don’t speak, love. Hold on, you’re doing so well,” a note of praise inflects his voice even through the barest of breaths. Arthur tilts his head further in response: acquiescence, fatigue. “Breathe,” Eames commands, lips so close they brush the curve of Arthur’s ear.

Arthur forces out a long thin breath, drags another in. His body shudders and Eames moves to hold him around the ribs, support him fully.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

Arthur’s face -- once tight with strain -- relaxes, serene.

“One more for me,” Eames coaxes. When Arthur shakes his head minutely, exhausted, Eames strokes his thumb across Arthur’s ribs. “You can, one more.”

Arthur’s body slumps and only his brows betray his effort: a final press of air -- out. In.

And out. Muscles slack. Wrung empty. Eames closes his eyes, reverent.

**End**


End file.
